Moon of madness
“Good heavens!” she replied, tore herself from a land of dreams and
stared at me, smiling. But her smile was not exactly a happy one.
“It’s like a musical comedy, isn’t it?”
“Why?” I asked.
“Well, everybody turning up at the same place for no reason!”
“Not everybody,” said I.
“Well--no.” Nanette hesitated, and then sat down beside me on the
bench. “Not everybody.”
“Curiously enough,” I went on, “I was thinking about you.”
Nanette stared at the point of her shoe.
“Must be telepathy,” she murmured.
“Why? Were you thinking about me?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “I shall never forgive myself for what I have
done.”
“You mean--about Adolf Zara?”
“About Captain Slattery, yes.” She turned to me. “You see, I always
think of him as ‘Slattery.’”
“Does that make you like him any better, Nanette?”
“No,” she admitted; “I have never liked him. But, well--you know how I
felt about him? Does Major O’Shea know that I know?”
“You mean,” I suggested, “does he know that you no longer suspect him
of using you as a lure?”
Nanette nodded without looking up.
“I have had no opportunity of telling him,” said I. “But I expect to
see him to-day.” I rested my hand upon hers, which lay listlessly on
the seat beside her. “May I talk to you quite honestly?”
“Of course,” said Nanette, but still did not look up.
“I want to tell you,” I went on, “that the man you call Captain
Slattery, but whose real name is Adolf Zara, is not as civilized as he
appears to be. He is a member of a very dangerous organization. I hope
you will make a point of avoiding him.”
“I am never going to see him again,” Nanette declared.
She spoke abstractedly, and it dawned upon me that her interest was
centred less upon this matter of her perilous acquaintance with a
member of the S Group than upon the passers-by. I attached little
significance to the fact at the time, and:
“I am only anxious about your personal safety,” I said. “Anything you
care to tell me, I shall keep to myself. Are you sure that Captain
Slattery does not mean to see _you_ again?”
Nanette looked aside at me.
I thought that, since Adolf Zara was human, my question had been
rather superfluous. O’Shea, who was no alarmist, had admitted that the
secret organization of these people was extensive and efficient. Wild
ideas assailed my mind, but:
“Of course, we are no longer in the lonely island of Madeira,” I went
on, “but in the capital of a civilized country. All the same, Nanette,
I should be glad to know that Zara was no longer in England.”
“So should I,” she admitted, and looked away again.
The words were simple enough, but, from what I knew of Nanette, I
detected an unfamiliar note in her voice. I was not sorry to hear it,
although it was a note of fear. It told me that my warning had been
unnecessary. Nanette knew that Zara was a dangerous man.
“I have been wondering what I should do,” she began suddenly. “But now
I have made up my mind.”
She opened her handbag and took out a twisted scrap of paper.
Smoothing it carefully, she passed it to me, and:
“Captain Slattery dropped this yesterday,” she said, “while he was
with me in a taxi. I think, perhaps----”
She hesitated.
“Yes?” said I, glancing at what was written on the paper.
“It’s so odd that I think, perhaps, you should show it to--your
friend.”
Watching her as she spoke, I wondered at the scheme of things;
wondered whether she would outlive a romance born in a jewelled
island, or whether, despite her youth, it was real, for good or ill,
this love of hers for O’Shea.
I suppressed a sigh, and bent over the writing. This was what I read:
Book from Charing Cross to the British Museum. From the Mansion House
also it is no distance to the British Museum. Hyde Park there is a
station. Change at Charing Cross for Piccadilly. Bond Street is merely
Bond Street, and two London Bridges are better than one Bond Street.
But the Mansion House and the British Museum are national
institutions, and Berkeley Square pulled down or Berkeley Square blown
up would only lead to the Old Bailey. Residents at the Crystal Palace
rarely moved to Berkeley Square, and the Tower Bridge is new whilst
London Bridge is old. Meet you in Bond Street.
I raised my eyes. Nanette was stifling laughter. Now she stifled it no
longer. And Nanette’s laughter was very sweet music.
“Of course,” she confessed, “I know it _seems_ perfectly idiotic! But
one never knows. It may mean a general strike or something. But
whatever it means, I shall have to be pushing along. I am meeting
Mumsy at Marshall’s.”
She stood up, looking sharply to right and left, and I wondered what
this might portend. However, we took the path to the Gate, walking
very slowly, and from there proceeded in a taxi.
I dropped Nanette at her destination and was standing outside the shop
wondering whether to walk over to the Club or to hunt up O’Shea, when
an explanation of this chance meeting presented itself.
O’Shea, I recalled, had once said, in Nanette’s presence, that when he
had a difficult problem upon his mind, he varied the ordinary routine
of a London morning. Other duties permitting, he walked as far as
Peter Pan, and in the presence of the little god not infrequently
discovered a solution of his difficulties.
Nanette had been unfortunate. This morning O’Shea had not come.
I reëntered the taxi which I had kept waiting, and:
“Lancaster Gate,” I directed.
Why I did so I have no idea; but experience has taught me that the
motives which prompt many far-reaching actions are so obscure as to
defy subsequent research.
Discharging the man, I set out along that path beside the Serpentine.
The hour was now approaching noon, and platoons of white-capped
nursemaids promenaded with the younger generation. I found myself
surrounded by future society beauties; statesmen who would be making
laws when I was an old man; great soldiers destined to save the
British Empire from enemies yet unborn; actresses whose reputations
might overshadow the memory of Sarah Bernhardt; princesses, dukes,
vagabonds, thieves; some in perambulators, others in miniature
automobiles, some toddling; a fascinating crowd.
Then I awakened from my day dream. Standing squarely in front of Peter
Pan, and watching that youthful deity with a fixed stare, was O’Shea!
He remained unaware of my presence until I touched him on the
shoulder.
He turned swiftly. And I saw a far-away look in his gray eyes
instantly change to one of close scrutiny; then:
“Decies,” he said, “I am glad to see you. I learned something last
night.”
“What?” I said.
“I learned why Adolf Zara has come to England! The president of the S
Group--a person with the mentality of a Tomsky and the morals of a
baboon--is one Schmidt.”
“Well?” said I.
“Schmidt is in London!”
CHAPTER XXV.
THE SECOND MESSAGE
“Of course,” I said, “it may mean nothing.”
O’Shea raised his eyes from the extraordinary communication that I had
handed to him, and:
“Or it may mean everything!” he added.
We sat on that bench by the water’s edge where I had met Nanette.
O’Shea continued his scrutiny of the message, and, looking over his
shoulder, I read it again for perhaps the twentieth time. Its
absurdity fogged me. Passers-by ceased to exist, and I forgot Peter
Pan.
“Perhaps,” said I, “it is some kind of code.”
“Since it is otherwise meaningless,” O’Shea murmured, without raising
his eyes, “your suggestion is excellent. You will have noticed that
there are three references to the British Museum and that the
expression ‘Two London Bridges’ occurs?”
“I had not particularly noticed this,” I admitted.
“Two London Bridges,” O’Shea went on musingly. “Very interesting--very
interesting. You see where I mean?”
He indicated the passage with the rim of his monocle.
“Quite,” said I eagerly. “But Charing Cross, Berkeley Square, and Bond
Street also occur several times.”
“But only Bond Street and Berkeley Square crop up in pairs,” he
replied, “if we exclude the brace of London Bridges.”
And now, as we sat there pondering over this nonsensical piece of
writing, came a strange interruption.
“Have you seen Comrade Zara?” said a guttural voice.
I looked up sharply. A stout German obstructed my view of Kensington
Gardens. His ample face was draped in a pleasant smile, and he
surveyed O’Shea and myself through a pair of spectacles that resembled
portholes. No doubt I was gaping like an imbecile but O’Shea rose to
the situation lightly.
“He is here,” he replied calmly. “Are you from Comrade Schmidt?”
“I am,” said the German. His smile disappeared. Relieved of it, his
face was frankly sinister. “Have you seen Comrade Wilson?”
Perhaps it is unnecessary to state that emerging from a perusal of the
letter about Hyde Park, Bond Street, and Berkeley Square, and finding
myself plunged into this apparently inane conversation, I began to
doubt my own sanity; but:
“_This_ is Comrade Wilson,” said O’Shea gravely, and waved his hand in
my direction!
The German nodded in a very brusque way.
“Show me the order,” he demanded.
O’Shea held up the demented document we had been reading; whereupon:
“Good,” said our eccentric acquaintance. “Quick! The order for
to-night!” He passed an envelope to O’Shea. “I am followed.
Good-morning.”
He moved off hurriedly, and I was still staring in speechless
astonishment when a thick-set man wearing a blue suit and a soft hat,
and who, without resembling a straggler from the Row, might have been
a Colonial visitor, came along the path. One keen side-glance he gave
us, and then disappeared in the wake of our Teutonic acquaintance.
“O’Shea----” I began; but:
“After all,” he interrupted me, “one must admit that the Scotland Yard
people are efficient. That was a detective-inspector of the Special
Branch.”
“Do you mean he is following the German?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“But why should he follow him? Who was the German?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea!” O’Shea replied.
“But he mentioned Zara! And you seemed to know him.”
O’Shea adjusted his monocle and looked me over in a way that I didn’t
like.
“Really, Decies,” he replied, “considering the admirable assistance
which you have given me in this matter--for which I shall always be
grateful--there are times when you defeat me. Why our German friend
reposed his confidence in us I have no more idea than the Man in the
Moon, nor why he confided this letter to my keeping. But his reference
to Zara brands him a member of the S Group, without the significant
fact that he is being followed by an officer of the Special Branch,
whom I chance to know but who does not know me. The weary arm of
coincidence is not long enough to embrace all these happenings,
Decies. There is some other explanation. Let us see if it is here.”
He tore open the envelope and withdrew a single sheet of paper. I bent
forward eagerly, and over his shoulder read the following:
Charing Cross, London Bridge, Hyde Park, and the Strand are all worthy
of a visit. Kingsway is modern, but the British Museum, Tower Bridge,
the Mansion House, especially the British Museum, must not be
neglected. Hyde Park merits several visits. The Mansion House, or the
British Museum, can be done in one day, but Hyde Park is the only Hyde
Park, whilst Piccadilly and the Strand are merely thoroughfares. The
British Museum exhibit 365A is not in the National Gallery. The
Crystal Palace does not resemble Buckingham Palace and Bond Street is
not the Station for the Crystal Palace. Shepherd’s Market is a
survival. But book at Kingsway. Meet you at the Mansion House.
“And now,” said O’Shea, “you know as much as I do!”
I stared at him blankly, and, as I stared, heard clocks, near and